The Virgin
by IceCream386
Summary: John thinks that Sherlock is a virgin and that sex scares him. He suspects he hasn't had any kind of relationship either. Unable to contain his curiosity, he decides to ask Sherlock about this. But the answers might not be what he's expecting...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**A/N: **This one adds a slightly unusual piece to the jigsaw of Sherlock's back-story.

**xxx**

Before he knew Sherlock, John had never knowingly met a virgin over the age of thirty. But, of course, Sherlock was something different. He kept severed heads in his fridge, knew about forty-something different kinds of tobacco ash and – when he was bored – had the charming habit of shooting walls. It was safe to say Sherlock was not your average man.

So it didn't really surprise John, per se, to learn that Sherlock had never explored the more intimate human passions. He didn't expect that it was something that would interest Sherlock tremendously. But there was something else, something that was a little more disconcerting.

John couldn't help but think that Sherlock was _afraid_ of sex, and that really did surprise him. Because if a man could fearlessly interact with dangerous psychopaths (albeit possibly being one himself) and risk taking a poisonous pill, surely he wouldn't find the idea of losing his virginity too daunting.

Sherlock, it seemed, did.

John decided, one quiet Monday morning, to attempt to broach the subject. Sherlock had just solved a case so hadn't quite had enough time to become agitated about having no work. On this particular morning, he was lazily sprawled on the sofa, his eyes closed.

"Sherlock, can I ask you something?" He wanted to begin gently. There was no need to alarm him.

"You just did," came the annoying, half-interested reply.

John sighed. "I'll take that as a yes then." He took a deep breath. "Have you ever...been with anyone?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up a little. He paused before replying. "Define 'been with.'"

"I don't know. You ever dated anyone? Had a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Fooled around at uni? Whatever."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. John couldn't tell whether it was curiosity or annoyance. Maybe a bit of both. "You're not being very specific," he said, looking away.

"Well, okay. Let's start with something definite. Ever kissed anyone?"

"You know I have," said Sherlock quickly. He was stretching his arms up lazily. He yawned.

"Yeah, but I mean kissed and meant it. You know, a proper snog," said John. He had actually amazed himself. He couldn't quite believe that he was having this conversation with Sherlock.

"Snog..." Sherlock pushed his hands together and rested them under his chin. He seemed to be thinking. In a sudden movement, he turned to John. "Why are you asking?"

"Let's just call it an experiment. I'll bet you've deduced why I'm doing it anyway."

Sherlock lips were slightly parted, and he was fluttering his eyelids a little. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but John thought he looked a little pink. Was he embarrassed? "I suppose I might have had a, quote on quote, snog," he said, without looking at John.

"Yeah? With who?" John was getting a little excited now. He was curious. Sherlock never normally discussed things like this. He was going to milk this for all it was worth.

"With whom," Sherlock corrected pedantically.

John raised his eyebrows. "Trying to dodge the question, are we?"

"No," said Sherlock. "Simply correcting what is a frustratingly common grammatical mistake."

"Stop avoiding the question, Sherlock," said John firmly. No way was he going to let this opportunity pass him up. "Who? How many?"

"A couple of people," Sherlock admitted. He pulled himself into a sitting position on the couch, reaching his hands so that he touched his toes, before straightening.

"Oh, yeah? And who were they?" asked John eagerly.

"A few..." Sherlock reddened, bit his lip. "It was at my university. It was a very long time ago. I don't consider any of my ventures in that direction to have been a success."

"Ventures in what direction?" Was this going where he thought it was going?

Sherlock was definitely a bit flushed now. He might even have been blushing. "Well..." He stopped himself and changed track. "What does it matter? This is of no importance." He spoke more confidently. It was like he was glad to be off the subject.

"It's just curiosity," said John casually. "And we're friends. Why can't we just talk about things for the sake of it?"

Sherlock eyed him resentfully. "What is the point of talking about something as pointless as who slept with who however long ago? I've never wasted my time asking you about something similarly pointless."

"But you're happy to bore me numb talking about tobacco ash and perfume," said John. "Maybe this is what I want to talk about. Couldn't you talk about what I'm interested in for a change?"

Sherlock sighed. "Oh, John. You do so like to romanticise things. No doubt this will be up on that ridiculous blog of yours. And what will you call it? _Sherlock Holmes' Bedfellows_ or some such nonsense," he said, scoffing. As he spoke, he swung his legs from the sofa to the floor.

John was affronted. "I wouldn't write about this on my blog. This a totally private conversation between two friends." He went a little sulky. "I thought you trusted me more than that, Sherlock."

Sherlock had been staring the floor. When John said this, he looked up sharply. "Trust you?" For some reason, he smiled. "John, you are quite possibly the most transparent man who has ever walked the planet. Trust is not really a concern with you."

John wasn't sure whether he should feel offended or flattered. When Sherlock said things, both feelings could be appropriate – or neither. "Well, that means you know I'm telling the truth. So you can let me know."

"What if I have no wish to divulge such tedious information?" Sherlock shot back. He was leaning towards John now, and his thin shoulders were hunched.

"Because it's interesting – to me at least," said John. He reciprocated Sherlock's gesture by leaning forward. Their faces were closer now. "So, come on. Who'd you snog?"

"If I told you, you'd say that I was lying," said Sherlock, slinking back under John's gaze.

"Try me."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Very well. I'll cater to your ridiculous fascination – since I've nothing better to do." At this, he glowered at John. John simply looked at him, waiting.

"When I was at university, I did pursue a...relationship," said Sherlock. The final word uttered with a sneer. "Within the context of that relationship there was a certain degree of physical intimacy."

When John realised that he had stopped talking, he said, "Is that it? Come on, Sherlock. That's not an answer." He levelled his gaze with Sherlock's, refusing to let him avoid eye contact.

Sherlock seemed reluctant to reply. He sat, gazing at the floor, saying nothing. His thin hands tugged briefly at his dressing gown, before returning to his side. He pouted slightly, then glanced up at John.

"Sherlock, why don't you just tell me, huh?" said John.

Sherlock seemed to pull himself out of a trance. He shook his head, seeming to clear his mind. "I've just told you."

"No, you haven't. Who was it? Let me know that at least."

Sherlock's jaw tightened and he clenched his teeth together briefly. "No, John. I don't see the relevance of this. Now if you don't mind, I have perfume to test." With those words he flounced off to the kitchen.

Defensive much? What was Sherlock hiding?

Several hours later, he found Sherlock bending over his microscope. Beside it were various pieces of lab equipment, some of which were filled with what was presumably the perfume he was testing. He did not look up when John came in.

He worked deftly, adjusting the lens where appropriate and sometimes breaking off to take notes. He bit his lip in concentration. Now wasn't a good time to interrupt, so John just sat there with his hands in his lap.

Several minutes passed in complete silence – apart from Sherlock's occasional shuffle to write something down or the click when he adjusted the lens. John looked at his watch and broke the silence by sighing. Sherlock glanced at him briefly, before returning to his work.

"Going well?" John asked hopefully.

"Tolerable," was the reply.

"Right, okay," said John, rubbing his thighs awkwardly. A heavy silence fell over them again.

John couldn't help but wonder who Sherlock had...been with. Had he even been with anyone? Or had John misread the situation? Sherlock had seemed to imply it, but perhaps he hadn't realised the connotations of 'physical intimacy'. After all, he didn't know the earth went around the sun.

"It was my professor."

The words were said so suddenly that John was caught off guard. "Sorry, what?"

"You asked who it was. I've told you," said Sherlock, not even glancing up from his experiment.

This was a bit much for John to take in. "Sorry, are you saying what I think you're saying?" He was sure that his voice made his amazement completely obvious.

"You know perfectly well what I'm saying, John." No trace of a blush now. He looked the same as he always did: brow furrowed, a look of concentration evident on his face.

"You...snogged...your professor?"

"Yes." Sherlock was inscrutable.

"You...had some kind of relationship with h...them." He realised that he had no idea whether it would be a man or a woman.

"That's..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Accurate, I suppose."

John's eyes widened. "You..." Somehow he felt scared to ask it. Now that it came to it, he wondered if he should just leave it. But the words came out of his mouth before he was really able to stop them. "You had sex with them?"

"Yes." Sherlock's tone was remarkably matter-of-fact. Unlike John, he seemed completely unfazed.

John, on the other hand, had not been expecting that. Hearing Sherlock say it – particularly when he said it so calmly – was slightly too much to take in. He could believe many things of Sherlock. But this? Somehow it didn't seem to fit. It felt like it was someone else's past, someone else's background.

"How long?" he said dumbly.

"About a year," said Sherlock crisply.

John was stunned. A year?

"Ah!" He quickly scribbled down a note, muttering something about the composition of some particular perfume. John didn't understand a word of it.

"What happened?" asked John, ignoring Sherlock's distraction.

"I don't know what you mean." He still didn't look at John directly.

"I mean 'how did it end?'" John wondered if Sherlock really hadn't understood or if he were being deliberately obtuse.

"Oh." Sherlock was slightly absent. "I finished university."

Was that really how that kind of relationship ended? "You...didn't report them?"

"What for?"

"Well, you know...for breaking professional boundaries, abuse of power – all that stuff." John spoke calmly, but his mind was a whirlwind. Could this really be Sherlock he was talking to about this? Or was this some kind of alternate universe?

"No." Sherlock rose from his seat to put two containers by the sink, before returning to his former sitting position.

Watching him, John wondered how far things had gone. Had Sherlock ended things or had the professor? He wasn't even going to try and figure out whether it had been a man or a woman. Had Sherlock been in love? Had he been using them?

He settled on asking, "Who ended things?"

"Me."

"Why?"

"I told you. I left university. It was a natural ending."

Did that mean that it had been a mutual decision? John couldn't help but feel concerned about the whole thing. It seemed so wrong. Yet, there had been no emotion in Sherlock's voice, no sign that talking about this pained him in any way. "You were happy for it to end?"

"More than happy. It was a frivolous distraction. By that time I had far more serious things to concern myself with."

He was now sprinkling the perfume over a piece of card and John smiled to himself. Yeah, Sherlock had far more important things to do. "Why did you start it in the first place?"

Sherlock stiffened slightly. "It was a...an experiment," he said.

John snorted. "Really?" he said, unconvinced. Then he turned serious. "Sherlock, that kind of thing isn't supposed to happen."

"Oh, yes. One of those law things, isn't it?"

John smiled at that. "Yeah, kind of."

"Hmm..." Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table. John imagined he was concentrating more on the perfume than this conversation. Typical of him really.

There was silence for a few minutes. John sat pondering everything he'd just been told. The man sitting in front of him somehow seemed very different in the light of all these revelations. The idea of Sherlock having any kind of relationship had been completely alien to John before now.

So what was it that kept him from ever pursuing one again? Had he tried it and simply disliked it? Had he been hurt? Once bitten, twice shy after all. Maybe he had been in the relationship for personal gain, to grant him more leeway to do as he pleased. There were too many possible motivations, and John didn't really know what to think.

"Did you love them?" he asked.

For the first time, Sherlock abandoned his work and looked straight at John. "John, you know that anything akin to love completely opposes the – "

John interrupted him. "Did you love them?" he repeated.

Sherlock didn't answer for a moment, but he held eye contact with John, never once looking down. "If love were something I ever admitted into my mind in any way, then I'd say..."

"That you loved them," John finished.

A peculiar expression crossed Sherlock's face. "That wasn't what I was..." He stopped himself and began again. "Well...I suppose..." he said feebly.

John was amazed but tried to hide it. "It's okay...I get it. I won't ask anything else," he muttered.

It wasn't like Sherlock to admit something like that. And somehow it didn't seem entirely convincing. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he felt Sherlock wasn't telling him something. He was probably lying.

Recovering himself, he cleared his throat and reached for an old tattered newspaper which lay on the table. "I'll just...read this," he said awkwardly.

"Of course," said Sherlock, obviously not listening. He was still looking at John, who was starting to get a little unnerved.

"Is something wrong?" asked John.

Sherlock breathed sharply in through his nostrils, as if shaking himself from a daze. "No."

"Okay." John picked up his paper and began to read. Five minutes in, he glanced up and saw Sherlock was still looking at him. "Are you sure everything's okay, Sherlock? You seem a bit...agitated."

Sherlock frowned. "No, there's nothing wrong."

"Well, why do you keep staring at me? You're going to give me a complex if you're not careful," John joked.

"Was I staring at you? Sorry, I was...thinking." Sherlock moved his eyes back to the microscope and looked through the lens again.

"Well, could you do your thinking without making me your focus point? It's...err...a bit unnerving."

Sherlock didn't reply to that, so John turned back to his newspaper. It was days old, and he'd already read most of the stories in it, but it was something to pass the time.

Later, he found himself waking up in the armchair and, checking his watch, realised he must have fallen asleep. He hadn't even realised he'd been tired. Or maybe the paper had just been that boring. Opening his eyes fully, he saw that Sherlock was still in the room, sitting at his microscope.

But he wasn't using it. In fact, he wasn't even looking at it. He looked how John couldn't remember ever seeing him look before. His shoulders were slumped and he was looking at the floor. He looked sad. Really sad.

Obviously, he hadn't noticed that John was awake, and John was curious now, so he decided not to announce that he was awake. He shut his eyes halfway, trying to make it easier for himself to revert back to 'sleeping' if Sherlock turned round.

He did just that, and John shut his eyes before Sherlock could see he was awake.

"Ah, John, you're awake."

_Damn it._ John opened his eyes slowly. "Yeah," he said, pulling himself into a sitting position. "I must have dozed off. Didn't realise I was that tired." Had Sherlock noticed John spying on him? Had he known all along?

If he had, he gave no indication of it. "Yes, you should go to bed an hour earlier. Your brain would function better if you got more sleep – necessary for someone with average brain power."

"My brain's functioning well enough to punch you," said John, but there was no malice in his voice.

Sherlock smiled at that.

John didn't know if it was his still sleep deprived brain that decided he should do this, but he approached the subject one more time. There was just one more thing he wanted to know. "Sherlock, if you loved them why did you end it?" He didn't explain, but they both knew what he was talking about.

"Why would love make something work?" said Sherlock. He pronounced the word 'love' with a sneer. "And who said anything about love?"

"You did," said John. "At least I thought that was what you were trying to say, that you were in love with..."

"Oh...yes...right...Well, I suppose I was..." Sherlock was stammering. He seemed to have suddenly become very flustered. "But," he said, composing himself a little and looking John straight in the eyes. "Love isn't always returned."

Unrequited love. That was what he'd been missing. The sadness. The awkwardness around the subject. Everything. It fit. He knew what unrequited love felt like; he'd been through it himself. He remembered all the girls he'd wanted to go out with in school, all the times they'd gone for other guys.

"Yeah, that hurts," he thought out loud.

Sherlock regarded him with the same peculiar expression that he'd worn before. "Yes..." Looking in Sherlock's eyes, John thought he looked hurt. Was it something _he'd_ said? Or was he just remembering his relationship (or whatever it had been) with the professor?

"Look, Sherlock, if you still wanted to, you could find someone. I mean people find their...soul mates at all ages." He nodded towards Sherlock, unsure why he was saying this. "You could."

"And what exactly does 'soul mate' mean?" he said coldly.

"Someone who accepts you with all your faults, someone who loves you unconditionally, someone you trust. I guess it just means that they'd never give up on you, no matter how much you irritated them. And they'd always forgive you, no matter what you'd done." John had surprised himself. That actually sounded rather poetic.

Sherlock looked him straight in the eyes. For a few seconds he was silent. When he spoke it was with his usual coldness. "Yes, that sounds lovely, John. But I don't need someone like that, and I'm certainly not looking for them. In fact, I'd avoid them if they came along." With that, he left the room.

John chuckled to himself. He was sort of relieved. Sherlock seemed to be almost back to normal.

Almost. Sherlock had looked at him so strangely, and some of the things he'd said about the professor hadn't seemed...right. Somehow he got the sense he was missing something. But he'd probably never guess what – even it were right under his nose the whole time...


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, John woke up at 9:30 and traipsed to the kitchen where he found Sherlock, who was already conducting more experiments. John suspected that he hadn't actually gone to bed. He was mixing the contents of two beakers together, but John didn't bother to ask what he was doing.

"Morning," he said sleepily. Sherlock made 'hmm' of acknowledgement, but didn't say anything.

John set about making himself a cup of coffee. He briefly considered asking Sherlock if he'd like one, but decided against it. Whilst the kettle boiled, he attempted to tidy up the kitchen. It was a bit of a lost cause really. Parts of Sherlock's lab equipment were scattered everywhere, along with endless crumpled notes that he had obviously discarded.

Pouring himself a cup, he came and sat down opposite Sherlock. "So..." he said awkwardly. He had so many questions that he wanted answered. Part of it was just idle curiosity but, in another sense, he felt very protective of Sherlock. If someone had hurt him, John wanted to know about it.

"Sherlock," he began again. "About what we were talking about last night..." Sherlock looked up from his work, so he carried on. "Was it...exclusive?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, John. I find it truly remarkable that you still want to discuss this. I thought I'd already explained everything to you."

"Well, I just wanted to know. We never talk about this kind of thing. You can't just expect me to let that go."

"Very well, John. I hope there isn't much more of this. What do you want to know?" he replied grumpily.

John ignored his bad mood. "Was it...exclusive?"

"Define 'exclusive'."

"Monogamous – just the two of you."

"No."

John didn't really know whether he should have expected that or not. He sipped his coffee, contemplating. "So, they were with other people?"

"Yes, they slept with several other students," said Sherlock breezily.

"And that didn't bother you?"

"Of course not," Sherlock replied, perhaps a little too quickly. "You're forgetting, John. I deduced that the moment I met him," he continued smugly.

"So why did you end things?"

"I already told you: I left university. Besides, they'd lost interest. It had become extremely dull." Sherlock dropped something into one of the contents of the beakers and it changed colour slightly.

John had almost hoped that Sherlock would have realised how wrong what the professor had been doing was, but he gave no indication of doing so. He _should_ have dumped him, maybe even reported him. But he had been very young, possibly in love. Who was sensible in those circumstances?

Looking at Sherlock now, he could almost see the student he had been: brusque, brittle, cold, vulnerable. He probably hadn't really had friends. Maybe the relationship had been the only positive attention he'd received at university. Perhaps it had in some way affirmed him and made him feel as though he were normal (however strange what he'd done actually was). Or perhaps it had made him feel even more special.

"Did you want to continue it?" he asked.

"No."

"Why?"

"It had become extremely boring," he said. "As has this conversation," he added.

John had to chuckle at that. Top marks for a witty comeback. "How did it start?" he said, taking a drink from his cup.

"I found him sexually attractive."

_Him_. John spat out his coffee, and Sherlock frowned at him. "Sorry, sorry," John said, wiping his mouth.

"I let such distractions cloud my judgement at that time. I acted rather illogically," Sherlock continued. He curled his lip. "It was a brief period of misjudgement."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. "Oh, John. When you let distractions such as physical attraction cloud your mind then you can only expect to make grave errors of judgement. Of course, I realised my mistake quickly."

This was all too much to take in. Sherlock had an active sex drive. He'd acted foolishly when he was in love. He was starting to sound so human. Maybe he shouldn't have said he wouldn't put this in his blog – his readers would be fascinated.

Another question came to his mind. "Does Mycroft know?"

Sherlock sneered at the mention of his brother. "I didn't tell him. Of course, he will no doubt know. He'll have deduced it." For the first time ever, the word 'deduced' was spoken with scorn.

"So, does he realise...you're...it was a man?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking at John as though he had just asked a very silly question. "How could he possibly not know?"

"Well, I didn't know!"

"Yes, but, John. Your mind is not on the same level as my brother's." Sherlock threw the insult out very casually.

"Alright, Sherlock. Enough with how stupid I am." He stirred his coffee thoughtfully. "Does that mean you're...gay?" he asked. "Which is fine of course," he added hastily.

"I know that."

"So...you're gay?"

"John, human sexuality is interesting to observe, but when it comes to personal classifications of sexual orientation, I do not have the faintest interest in it."

That was interesting. Sherlock didn't do labels. Still, he obviously wasn't exactly straight.

"Right. No labels," he muttered. Sherlock looked at him for a second when he said that, but he didn't make any comment.

John wondered what Mycroft would know. Perhaps it would be worth asking him about it. Or maybe that was too prying. Why was he so interested in it anyway? Maybe he should just mind his own business.

But he was curious. There were still so many questions. He wondered how many people had known about it. Had Sherlock's parents known? If they had, he couldn't imagine them approving of it. Did they even know he'd been with a man? Would they be alright with that?

A devious plan came to his mind.

"Right, Sherlock. I think I'm going to leave you to it. I'm going for a shower."

Sherlock simply nodded, not looking at him.

Once in the bathroom, John pulled out his phone and sent a text to Mycroft.

_Can we meet? It's to do with Sherlock._

Within a few minutes, Mycroft answered.

_What is wrong?_

John smiled a little at the immediacy of the text, before sending his reply.

_Think he's smoking again. You know what that means_.

The reply this time was instant.

_I will send someone over shortly. Be sure to be ready soon._

John smiled, knowing he had exploited Mycroft's weak spot – he was so overprotective. For a moment, he felt a little guilty, but he reasoned that he was doing it with Sherlock's best interests in mind.

He showered and got dressed quickly and scrambled out of the door. Just then, his phone buzzed. It was Mycroft.

_Turn the corner and get into the black car._

John almost laughed at how over-dramatic Mycroft was being, but he did as he was told, locating the black car in minutes. Climbing in, he found that it was empty, save for him and the driver. Their journey was silent and quick, and he arrived at the entrance of a little café.

He had long since ceased to expect consistency in where they met, so this did not surprise him. He stepped out of the car and went inside.

It was a small, rather dingy café with red chairs and white tables. He spotted Mycroft within seconds. He was sitting at a table by the window, same fake, condescending smile he always wore. He walked over and sat down opposite him.

Mycroft acknowledged with a nod."So you had something of great importance to tell me. I believe it concerns my brother," he said, clasping his hands together. His gaze was piercing.

"Yeah, you got the text," said John awkwardly.

"Which was of course entirely untrue," Mycroft said instantly.

John looked up at him, guilty.

"Oh, don't worry," Mycroft continued, his demeanour as placid as ever. "I knew that before I summoned you here. I wanted to see you anyway and, of course, your purpose is very clear to me as well."

"What do you want from me?" asked John, ashamed that his plan had failed so spectacularly.

"Oh, just a little update. I'm interested to know how my little brother has been. You know how he has always been so hostile to me." He paused, looking closely at John. "But I think your visit is more unusual. So tell me: what do you wish to know about it?"

"Sorry, what are we talking about?" said John, unsure whether they were talking about the same thing. How could Mycroft have guessed.

As if reading his thoughts, Mycroft said, "It's quite alright. You wish to know about his little dalliance with a certain university professor. No doubt, you wonder how I can tell."

John nodded. "Yeah."

"Why else would you request to see me? Particularly at such short notice," he replied serenely. As he said this, he reached up to tidy his hair.

"Well...drugs?" said John lamely. He could feel himself blushing.

"Yes, though it is doubtful even then. However, it is completely obvious to me that Sherlock has not been partaking in any illicit substances." Mycroft smiled superciliously.

"Okay, fine," said John, feeling Mycroft's gaze but not wanting to look. Instead, he focused his attention on the scratched surface of the table.

Mycroft drummed his fingers on the table slowly. "What information do you require about it? And for what purpose?"

John sighed, looking up. "I don't know. I just thought it was normal to talk about things like this. I...just want to know."

Mycroft's eyes burned into him. "So it is just idle curiosity."

"Is that a question?"

"No."

"Well, believe what you want, but it's not actually like that. I'm his friend." John felt his cheeks burn, and he wasn't sure whether it was with anger or embarrassment.

"And that means you can't be curious about his life with no direct reason for your curiosity?" asked Mycroft, twirling his umbrella. The faintest of twitch of a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"Well...no," said John. He cleared his throat. "But he's important to me. Don't tell me you haven't deduced that."

"I've deduced a great deal more about you than that," said Mycroft evasively. "Still, there seems to be rather more to this...issue."

"I don't know what you mean by that."

"I think you do." Mycroft looked him in the eyes, and the same cold, familiar smile was on his face. "However, I am happy to satisfy your requests for details of his...association."

"What do you want me to do in return?" said John suspiciously.

"I have told you. I simply want to have a little chat." He said the word 'chat' in the same fake, saccharine tone he so often used.

John briefly considered his options. Was Mycroft lying to him? He couldn't really tell whether he wanted anything in return or not, but he decided it was worth the risk. "Okay. Who was he?"

Mycroft didn't reply for a moment, as a waiter came over with a pot of tea and two cups. Mycroft nodded his thanks politely, before turning back to John. "Tea?"

"Yeah, thanks," muttered John.

"I'll be mother," said Mycroft, pouring John – and then himself – a cup. He gestured to the sugar and milk. "Help yourself."

John poured in some milk and stirred it under Mycroft's watchful eye.

"He was a new lecturer at the university. He was a replacement for one who had recently retired." He paused to drop a cube of sugar into his tea. "He was, as I recall, highly gifted in his field, and he had a good deal of experience.

Sherlock acted very foolishly. I was aware of it, of course, but I assumed it would pass. I was gravely mistaken. His ridiculous infatuation did not pass, as I had hoped. It grew and strengthened." Mycroft looked out of the window of the café.

"So what happened?" asked John.

Mycroft sighed. "Well, I warned him against becoming involved with the man, but he wouldn't listen to me. You know how stubborn he has always been. So I had no choice but to inform the university. They fired him on the grounds of professional misconduct. He was unemployable. No other university would have him."

John was surprised. This wasn't what Sherlock had told him.

"Of course, Sherlock was unhappy with my actions," Mycroft continued. "He said that I should have stayed out of his affairs. He didn't speak to me for months after."

No great change there then. "Why did you put an end to it?"

"I did not wish to see an unprofessional man retain his job, especially when there were many others who were equally suitable for the position." Mycroft stirred his tea and took another sip. "The man was extremely intelligent, but younger men could have taken his place. He was simply filling the shoes of an ancient."

John gulped his tea down to ask, "How old was he?"

"Fifty-five."

"What?"

"Fifty-five," Mycroft repeated. He observed John's disbelieving expression and smiled. "I suppose you are thinking that he was far too old for my brother. I couldn't agree more. The age difference was embarrassing."

John gawped. "He was old enough to be his dad!"

"Had you imagined him younger?" Mycroft asked.

John tightened his grip on his cup. "What did he see in him?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows for a second. "I have no idea. Perhaps it was the experience he had." The way he said 'experience' hinted that he wasn't talking about his knowledge of chemistry.

John sipped from his cup gingerly. "Did...anyone else know?"

Mycroft adjusted his tie. "No, I don't believe so." He nodded at John. "Of course, you do now."

John watched as Mycroft stirred his tea and then held it up – pinkie sticking out – to drink. What a strange situation. He was having tea with Mycroft and talking about Sherlock's love affair with a university lecturer. That wasn't something he'd expected.

Gazing out of the window, he tried to imagine what the relationship between the two brothers had been like before. Had they been closer then? Perhaps what Mycroft had done had been what caused the rift between them. He wondered if there had been an element of spite in Mycroft's actions, whether he had done it simply to upset Sherlock. It seemed possible that he was capable of such maliciousness.

Yet there was a closeness implied in what Mycroft said. Somehow it seemed as though he cared for his younger brother. Maybe it had been Sherlock who had caused the rift, refusing Mycroft's help. That was conceivable as well.

He sighed and scratched his head. The tea had stopped steaming and was cooling now. He tapped the side of his cup thoughtfully. "Do you think he loved him?" he asked, almost without thinking.

An expression of distaste passed over Mycroft's face. "I don't know. It is possible. He certainly let sentiment cloud his judgement. Perhaps it crossed over into the category of love."

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say that was an admission," said John.

Mycroft smiled slyly. "Not mine. It was Sherlock who admitted such passions into his...mind." He took a delicate sip from his cup. "Love is not as alien a construct to him as he would have you believe..."

"Is he gay?" John asked bluntly.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I'm afraid I can't answer that. I'm sure you can draw your own conclusions."

Why did the Holmes' brothers have to speak in such riddles? "Well, I don't know," said John honestly. "Could be gay...Could be bi...anything really."

"Indeed," Mycroft replied, drawing himself up slowly.

John frowned. "Don't you know what your own brother is?"

Mycroft looked down briefly. "I don't concern myself with such matters. You, of course, do. So I should think you might have more...insight."

John wasn't sure whether or not that was a veiled insult. He scratched his head. "What do you think?"

Mycroft twirled his umbrella and then snapped it back to the ground. "I really have no opinion."

John cleared his throat. "Right, well..."

"Of course you want to know about the other students. There was a very full list of them. The man wasn't picky. Sherlock knew perfectly well what was going on, but he didn't care." Mycroft paused to sip his tea. "Of course," he continued, "that didn't mean he was...happy about it."

There was something mysterious about this. John couldn't help but feel that there was something which he wasn't being told. "Did he ever...have another relationship?"

Mycroft didn't answer for a moment, instead gazing out of the window. When he turned back to John, his face was strangely serious. "Not that I am aware of."

"So that was...when he dived into his work?" John asked, wondering if this had triggered Sherlock's avoidance of people, disdain for love and relationships.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "No, that was when he began experimenting with...other things."

John didn't need to ask anything to understand that Mycroft was talking about the drugs. "Why?"

"It wasn't the first time he had tried them, but this time I suppose he was what you might call lovesick. He was very foolish then – still is."

John couldn't help but wonder whether Mycroft had ever had a proper relationship. It was hard to imagine. Something about him seemed so cold, so unloving.

"Emotionally unavailable is what I they say, I believe," said Mycroft, interrupting John's contemplation.

"Well, he did say he was married to his work," said John, before drinking the last of his tea.

Mycroft looked down at John's empty cup. "Yes..." he said vaguely.

John looked and saw that Mycroft had finished his drink too. "Looks like we've both run out," he said, gesturing to their empty cups.

Mycroft smiled. "Of course. I have...errands to run. This little chat has been most illuminating though. I hope we have more."

He stood and John did the same.

"Bye," said John.

"Goodbye," said Mycroft. "I will contact you should I wish to...meet with you again."

"Right," said John, bewildered.

Mycroft nodded, then began to walk out of the café. The sound of his footsteps seemed louder to John than anything else. Perhaps they just highlighted how deserted the place was.

He didn't wait around after that, and he left soon after. Finding he had some spare cash on him, and not feeling inclined to walk, he decided to get a taxi back to Baker Street. On the way back, he saw he was being taken a different route from the one he had come on. This one was more scenic – more trees, more scenery, more people. It was nice.

He arrived at the flat in no more than ten minutes, and he let himself in fairly quietly. He was greeted by Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, hello, John. I was wondering where you'd got to. Is it nice outside?"

John smiled. "Yeah, it's pretty nice. Why?"

"Oh, no reason," said Mrs. Hudson. "I just like to know." She chuckled. "He's trying to do something with perfume. Never will I understand that man. Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

John laughed, and she patted him on the shoulder, before bustling away.

He found Sherlock virtually unchanged from when he had left him. Bent over his microscope, he was sipping a cup of what John presumed must be coffee. Without looking up, he said, "So what did my dear brother say to you?"

_Damn it_. He wasn't going to bother asking him how he'd worked that out. "Loads," he said smugly.

"Should my ears be burning?" said Sherlock sarcastically.

"Do you really think we only talk about you?" said John, though he knew that he didn't sound convincing.

"So what did he tell you about it?" Sherlock had looked up from his work, and John knew there was no point in lying to him.

"Well, he told me a lot of things you didn't, and he told me things that contradicted what you told me." John paused to cross over so that he was sat opposite Sherlock.

"And?" Sherlock said casually.

"Why did you lie to me about it?"

"Why are you saying that I lied to you?"

"What Mycroft told me didn't fit what you said," John replied.

Sherlock stiffened. "And you believe my brother's version over mine." He narrowed his eyes. "Interesting."

"Can you blame me?" John replied, crossing his arms.

"The man lies routinely for no reason other than personal choice. I may do the same, but do you really think his word carries more weight than mine." Sherlock snatched up a magnifying glass. "Anyway, you know how Mycroft likes to frame things."

John smiled, uncrossing his arms. "He said you were emotionally unavailable."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "And did he also happen to mention that my drug habit was directly related to my parting with that...man?"

John chuckled. "He did actually."

Sherlock began examining something with the magnifying glass. "You can disregard everything he says, John. It's total nonsense."

"And why should I do that?"

"Just do."

John wondered whether that meant that what Mycroft said was untrue, or whether it just meant that Sherlock just wanted it to be. He didn't get the feeling he was going to find out soon. Giving straight answers wasn't really Sherlock's strong suit.

John smiled. Sherlock didn't do 'straight' anything.


End file.
